


The Young and the Crazed

by Zasa



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Canonical Character Death, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-14 06:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18047735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zasa/pseuds/Zasa
Summary: Arthur is nineteen when he comes across two graves.John is nine when he sees Arthur lose himself.Dutch is twenty-seven when he realizes his two sons mean the world to him, and he won't be able to hold on to them forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunetta_The_Wind_Godess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunetta_The_Wind_Godess/gifts).



> To Lunetta_The_Wind_Godess, whos fic 'Buck Wild' made me feel all kinds of soft things. That fic inspired this one, because I'm a sucker for young Arthur and his two dads.
> 
> -
> 
> I've obviously taken some creative liberties with the timeline.

It was always hard saying goodbye to Arthur, even knowing it was temporary. They were a tight-knit family, the four of them. No matter what nonsense they got into during the day, they always gathered up for dinner by the fire and under the stars. But it was that time of year, his saddlebags packed with gifts meant for Eliza and Issac and nearly all his hard-earned cash. 

"You sure you don't want to stay for lunch?" Dutch asked, squinting into the sun, its light enveloping Arthur as he mounted up. "Hosea's already scaling the fish?"

"Nah, I should be gettin' on. They'll be wonderin' where I'm at as is."

"Of course, I understand," Dutch said. And he did. The young man had grown fast, had a family of his own, a boy that needed him, but Dutch was admittedly selfish. Arthur had been his son first. Giving him up, even for a month, felt like ripping a piece of himself out and having to hope that it would return safely, but never knowing for sure.

"You okay, Dutch?"

"Yes, son. Be safe, okay?"

Arthur shifted, rearing his horse to stillness as it tried taking off for the trees. The thing was still half-wild. "If...if you wanna ride with me, I know you mentioned getting some supplies from town."

Dutch's heart leapt. Of course Arthur could see Dutch's resistance. Of course now he understood what it was like to have someone he felt responsible for. It was a gift, and a rare one at that, to allow Dutch some comfort, no matter how young and dumb it might make Arthur feel.

"You know, that's not a bad idea," Dutch said, spinning toward his tent before he lost control of his grin. "Let me tell Hosea." He rushed toward the edge of camp, a spring in his step that caught Hosea's attention before Dutch made it over. John looked up too, a knife sawing through scales at Hosea's direction. "Heading to town for a bit. Keep a fish near the fire for me. Should be back soon."

"Hey, I wanna go," John said, throwing his knife in the grass.

"Ain't gonna be no fun, son, I promise," Dutch said, roughing up John's hair.

Hosea glanced past him where Arthur was brushing through his horse's mane. "We've talked about this Dutch. The man's almost twenty, too old for you to be--."

"It ain't like that," Dutch said, a little too quickly, already turning on his heel toward his steed. 

"Wait!" John called, "I said I wanna go, Dutch!"

Was it wrong of Dutch to want time with Arthur without John? Maybe, he decided. Seemed like he was picking favorites. But with John needing constant attention to keep out of trouble, and with Arthur having a new independent life, it felt like ages since he'd spent quality time with Arthur.

"Take the boy, Dutch," Hosea said. "He needs to stretch his legs and I need at least a little bit of fish meat left."

Dutch bit his lip, knowing he'd never hear the end of it if he refused, so he held an arm out and John sprinted into it, crashing into his side and pawing at his back. "What are we gonna do in town? How far away is it? Can I carry one of your guns?"

"Shop. A couple hours. And No," Dutch said, trying to hold the annoyance out of his voice. He wasn't being fair and he knew it, but seeing Arthur's face fall at their approach made Dutch even more frustrated.

"Oh," Arthur said. "You're bringing goldenboy, then?" Oh god. That nickname. Dutch had never imagined bringing in another street urchin would cause such tension. Dutch wasn't sure how to respond, but Arthur filled the silence with a sharp look in John's direction. "No cow tippin' this time, boy."

"You can't boss me around!"

"Okay. Get caught by the sheriff. See if I care."

"Boys," Dutch warned, climbing into his staddle and pulling up John after him. "If I have to whip you both, I will."

"Yeah, Arthur," John sneered, squeezing Dutch tight, knowing he liked to push his horses to their limits. It had not been his intention this time, but perhaps it was best to get to town as soon as possible, now that anything he wanted to say would be overpowered by John and Arthur's constant bickering.

So, the rode quickly through the plains, Arthur turning it into a race when he kept nudging past Dutch. Dutch met the gleam in Arthur's eyes and returned it. "Hold tighter, John," Dutch warned, and sooner than later, Dutch at the lead, the small block of homes outside of town pulled up on the horizon.

"Can I see baby Issac?" John called out behind them. 

From just a few feet away, beneath the thundering of hooves, Arthur called back, "Sure! If you promise not to get into trouble in town!"

Dutch heard John scoff, but he eventually agreed.

Dutch pulled onto the small dirt road that wound between houses, slowing now that he had decidedly beat Arthur. Even then, he felt John's grip tighten.

"Dutch?" he croaked. "Ain't that one Eliza's house?"

Dutch pulled his steed to a stop. He thought so, yes. But last he saw it, the windows and doors hadn't been boarded up as they were now. Dutch turned toward Arthur, instinctively wanting to send him away, but already Arthur's face was twisting from confusion to shock.

Arthur scrambled off his horse, not bothering to stop it, running up the front steps and freezing at the door. There was no note that Dutch could see from his vantage point. No eviction notice. Nothing.They had moved off without a word, Dutch thought, his stomach going sour.

Arthur beat on the door. Dutch dismounted, patting John's knee as he did. "Stay here, son."

"What's goin' on?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I do."

"El?" Arthur called, barely hiding the tremble in his voice, his knuckles scuffed from the raw wood barring the door. Dutch came up behind him and nudged him out of the way with a palm to his back, trying to keep calm. He began tugging at the boards, water leaking from around the nails as though freshly chopped. 

"Dutch," Arthur croaked.

"Don't worry," was all Dutch could say, finally prying the first board loose and tossing it over the porch railing. Once Arthur realized what he was doing, he joined in, tearing his hands and breaking his nails, scrabbling at the boards and pulling with all his weight until he was stumbling backwards, board in hand.

Once the door was clear, Arthur kicked it open. Shards of wood rained across Dutch's feet and the entranceway. Arthur vanished inside, hidden in shadow, Dutch hesitating to go in after him.

"Eliza?" He screamed. "Eliza!"

The fear in it, the torment, the dread, it was almost too much. Dutch nearly retreated to his horse just so Arthur wouldn't catch him covering his ears. Arthur reappeared a few moments later, eyes wide. "Dutch," he choked. "Dutch, there's blood."

Dutch was rushing inside in an instant, one hand around Arthur's arm so the man could lead him through the gloom. They ended up in the kitchen, the dining table chairs on their sides. Dutch could smell it now, the tang of old blood. 

A small hand tugged on the back of his vest, Dutch spinning and nearly slapping John off his feet. "Jesus, boy, you scared me. I told you--"

"There's somethin' in the backyard," John said, eyes downcast. That got Arthur's attention off the blood and sprinting outside. "It's..." John began, watching Arthur go. He looked at Dutch, the whisper too meek to seem like it was out of John's mouth. "Crosses."

As soon Dutch understood, Arthur was screaming, "no!"

The pained sound of it--like an animal pinned beneath a fallen tree--got Dutch running toward the door. As soon as he was around the house, he saw Arthur on the ground. Beyond him, two graves. Arthur was crawling his way to them, clawing at the dirt, a sob catching in his throat as he glanced up at Dutch, all the unshed tears glinting in his eyes. "Dutch," he pleaded. "Dutch, they're...Dutch...I can't..."

Dutch dropped to his knees, pulling Arthur into a hug that knocked the breath out of both of them. From where they crouched, it was impossible to read the shallow engravings on the crossed. Dutch looked back and found John standing at the side of the house, trying to chew a hole in his lip.

"John, son, can you read the names?"

"Dutch, no."

"It might not be them, Arthur."

John passed them, all his weight on his tiptoes as if afraid to make noise. He peeked over the upturned dirt and began to sound out the letters, still learning to read.

"Is.. Is-sa--"

That was enough. Arthur collapsed into Dutch, burying his face against his chest, the sob he'd been holding finally breaking free. "No, no, no--"

There was nothing Dutch could say, nothing that would ease the pain that Dutch had feared since coming to love Arthur. The pain that tore through his insides when he'd found Annabel.

"No!" Arthur screamed it, fingers biting into Dutch's skin. "This can't be happening. This isn't--why would--who would--?"

"Shh, Arthur. Take a breath for me. Please."

Arthur went ridgid, shoving Dutch away, tears streaking through the dusting of filth on his face. He fell trying to get to his feet and ended up crawling through the mud to see what John saw. Dutch felt a sting in his shoulder where Arthur had hit him and a sharper sting in his eyes.

John backed away from Arthur and Dutch motioned him over, fearing what Arthur might do in the midst of such turmoil. He'd never seen him so wild, not even when he'd been blackout drunk. John slotted into Dutch's side, shaking.

Arthur kicked one of the crosses, and Dutch and John both jumped. Dutch leaned toward John's ear. "Get to my horse."

"Is he--?" John began.

Okay? No. It didn't seem it. And while Arthur wouldn't be leaving on month-long visits anymore, Dutch had a deep, overwhelming feeling that he would lose his son forever to grief. "Go, John," he warned, and this time, John listened.

Arthur had fallen silent, his quick shoveling swipes taking all his extra energy. Dutch got to him, hands squeezing his wrists just before they vanished into the foot-deep hole he'd begun digging over his son's grave.

Arthur jerked back, Dutch keeping a tight enough hold that he was positive there'd be bruises to show for it. "Let me go!"

"You aren't thinkin' straight."

"I gotta see. I gotta make sure it's him."

"It's him, son." Dutch kneeled in front of him, glancing at the cross. "I'm sorry, but it's him."

"No!"

"Arthur, listen to me. You have calm down."

"Calm down?" Arthur screamed. By now the closest neighbor had emerged, exchanging a few words with John. "Calm down? Are you kiddin' me? Get out of here! I don't wanna see y-- I wanna be alone, Dutch!"

"I don't think--"

"Get away from me!" Arthur snapped, shunting a fist toward Dutch's stomach, forcing him to release his grip and step back. With his hands freed, Arthur began digging again.

"Arthur, please," Dutch begged. It was never above him to beg, especially when his son's mental fortitude depended on it. It was bad enough to come across the scene they had, but to see the remains of his dead son...

Arthur ignored him, tearing through the dirt, getting into it up to his elbows. Dutch heard the scrape like nails on wood and tackled Arthur to the ground. Arthur screamed. He fought back. The sky whirled in Dutch's vision and his back slammed into the ground, Arthur climbing on top of him. There was nothing but agony in Arthur's eyes. He reared his fist back, blocking out the sun. Dutch realized that at some point that year, Arthur had become stronger than him. Then the light was back in his eyes, all consuming, a white blazing light that overpowered the sun. Arthur had hit him right between the eyes. Somewhere, beyond the ring of his ears, he heard John scream.

Dutch's blinked back the spots in his eyes, throwing a hand toward John to stop him from running any closer. He wasn't apt to listening, and he kept rushing closer. The neighbor woman grabbed him by the back of his ratty shirt and pulled him to a stop. Dutch didn't want to imagine what would have happened if no one had been there to help, but still the flashes of John's lifeless body would haunt his nightmares for weeks to come.

"Arthur," Dutch began, getting a fist in his mouth. Arthur reared back again, knuckles dripping Dutch's blood. It came crashing back down against his nose Dutch heard the dull crunch of cartilage.

"Dutch!" John screamed, his voice pitched higher than Dutch had ever heard it. "Stop it, Arthur! Stop it!"

"S'okay," Dutch murmured, but there was too much blood in his throat to make it loud enough for John to hear. Instead, he turned his attention back to Arthur. "Let it out, son." He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the next hit. 

It didn't come, but a drop of rain did. It tapped Dutch's cheek, leaving a trail of warmth as it sank toward his jawline. He opened his eyes, finding Arthur still on top of him, but now his eyes were shut and his hands were planted on either side of Dutch's head. Tears squeezed out between Arthur's lashes, clearing the blood from Dutch's face one drop at a time.

"So sorry, Dutch," Arthur cried. "I didn't mean to--I wasn't--"

"I know, my son."

Arthur collapsed beside Dutch, curling up until his feet were no longer sinking into the hole he'd opened in his son's grave. Dutch tried to sit up, his vision flashing white again. The boney arms of John Marston wrapped around him, his weeping loud in Dutch's ear. 

"John," Arthur croaked.

"Shut up! You hurt Dutch!"

Dutch rubbed his hand through John's hair. "I'm okay."

"No you ain't! You're...you're--" John buried his face in Dutch's neck, body convulsing with a sob. The poor kind had never shown so much emotion, but, Dutch supposed, he'd already lost his parents once. He knew the sorrow he'd been close to feeling a second time had something happened to Dutch.

Dutch wrapped an arm around John, propping himself up with the other. He had to spit blood before he could find his voice again. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Stop your worryin'."

The neighbor had drawn closer, hand to her chest as she leaned toward Arthur. "Mr. Morgan?"

Arthur glanced up, face drawn into an expression that brought a shock of pain to Dutch's heart. It was the look of defeat. Dutch glanced toward Arthur's gunbelt, wondering how he could get the weapons before Arthur decided to use them.

"Mr. Morgan. I'm so very sorry."

"What happened, Mrs. Blevins?" Arthur didn't sound like himself anymore. He was far too broken to be the hardheaded gunslinger Dutch knew him to be. But even gunslingers had hearts.

"I had meant to write you, Mr. Morgan, but could't find an address for you. Had a couple robberies around town last week. My husband killed the crook that came to our home, but there were others. We didn't realize until it was too late. There was gunshots and...and my husband found Eliza dead in the kitchen. Issac was...in her arms."

Arthur didn't even flinch, but Dutch did. He watched Arthur closely, seeing all the thoughts of revenge and hatred flaring behind his eyes. Dutch was feeling them too, despite his stance against it. 

"The men are dead, Mr. Morgan," Mrs. Blevins said, as if seeing the thoughts too. "If that's any consolation. The deputy sheriff lives nearby and came runnin' over. Killed them as they were leaving Eliza's. I wish I could have saved her, I really do. You know I loved her dearly. And...and I know you loved her too. In your own way."

Arthur stood, Mrs. Blevins shrinking back. "Thank you, ma'am. For lettin' me know." Arthur didn't even glance in Dutch and John's direction as he made his way to his horse, waiting for him by Dutch's steed.

"Dutch?" John asked quietly.

"Let's...give him some space. Just for a little while. He don't want us to see him like this, understand?"

John nodded against Dutch. Dutch followed the glint of Arthur's guns until they were out of sight, stomach souring when he realized Arthur was heading away from both the town and camp.

"All she had, last I heard, was ten dollars saved up. Can you imagine, killing for anything, but especially for just ten dollars?"

John opened his mouth, the fear in his eyes returning. It seemed he was beginning to realize all the wrong Dutch had done, despite his best efforts to make it seem justified. He had killed for much less.

"We should follow him," Dutch said, mostly to himself. "Stay far enough back. Make sure he doesn't do anything drastic." Dutch climbed to his feet, John hanging onto him like a leech. "Thank you, ma'am."

Mrs. Blevins had started back toward her house, seemingly wary now that she was alone with a stranger, even if he had been beaten within an inch of his life. "Just wish I had better news."


	2. Chapter 2

Dutch couldn't find him. The wind was too rough and the ground too hard to have left decent tracks. He spent nearly three hours searching for Arthur, stopping only when he began to hear John's stomach growl. Hosea might be worrying, Dutch realized, ashamed to have been gone so long without warning, especially considering he had one of their sons. 

Dutch turned his steed in the opposite direction. "Wha--where we goin'?" John said. "We ain't found 'em yet."

Dutch didn't open his mouth, afraid doing so would open the floodgates for the sob of his own he'd been holding in. Arthur, hurting, armed, and alone. John, scared of his wits of his brother while still panicking about the older man's safety.

"Dutch, what's--?"

"Gotta tell Hosea what's goin' on," Dutch blurted, relieved when tears didn't follow. "I'll come back out. Get my tent and everything. Don't worry."

"No!" John said, squeezing Dutch's bruised middle. "He'll kill you! I stopped 'em this time, but if I ain't with you...I don't...I don't want you to die, Dutch. You're my dad now. You and Hosea."

Dutch put his hand over John's. "I ain't gonna die, boy. I still got a lot of years to go. You'll be middle-aged before I'm gone. Gotta see you grow up, don't I?"

"Please, don't..."

"Be brave now, son, like I know you can."

*

Hosea wasn't happy anway, not after Dutch had promised to be back hours ago, but seeing Dutch and John come over the rise brought him to a dead stop by the cold remnants of their lunch. Dutch's face was slashed, swollen, and more red and black than not. He looked like he'd been mauled by a bear, albeit a small one. It made Hosea stumble when the shock subsided enough to let him move. 

"Dutch?" Hosea asked, almost in disbelief that this was his companion. He hurried to the horse, focusing on John's skinny arms as they held to Dutch for dear life. "What the hell happened?" He asked, moving around to take John off the horse. He set him on the ground and scoured him for injuries, seeing only blood that must have transferred off Dutch.

"Nothin' good," Dutch began, sliding off his horse and hitching it to its usual spot.

"Arthur beat up Dutch!" John cried into Hosea's hip, releasing all the emotion Dutch had made him keep in.

"What?" Hosea snapped.

Dutch took a ragged breath. "Eliza and Issac are dead."

Softer, Hosea repeated himself. "What?"

*

The sun had set hours ago. Dutch had listened to Hosea comfort John into a light doze by the fire, the chill of the desert night settling into their bones.

"Don't wanna sleep," John muttered.

"Just a nap, then. You had a rough day."

"Hosea?"

"Yes, my boy?"

"What if Arthur don't come back?"

"I have a feelin' you're worryin' over nothin'. I bet he's missin' us already."

"I miss /him/ already."

"I know ya do. Me and you both. Just shut them eyes."

"Hosea?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Hosea paused. "I...love you too, son."

"You sure?"

"As sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west."

"Okay." Hosea draped a blanket over John, tucking him in tight.

"Hosea?"

"John?"

"Does the sun set in the east?"

"You bet it does."

*

Dutch was so on edge that even the slow, gentle thud of hoofbeats got him out of bed in an instant. Not that he'd been sleeping. Hosea had urged him to get some rest and go for Arthur in the morning, and while he kept his eyes shut just hoping his body would get the hint, he'd been rolling in his cot, stressed and restless, for hours. Dawn was approaching. So was something else.

Dutch fled from his tent, half-dressed, scanning the treeline and heading toward the hitching posts. The gray mare appeared, Arthur on its back. Dutch could have dropped into a dead sleep at that moment, knowing that Arthur was okay. Maybe okay wasn't the right word. Alive. He was alive, for now.

Arthur caught eyes with Dutch, dropping his chin so the brim of his hat blocked their views. He pulled his horse beside Dutch's, sliding off and turning his back to Dutch while he fed both mounts with two apples from his saddlebag. The bag was deflated, empty of the treasures it held earlier save for the bundles of money.

Arthur pulled the bundles out and met Dutch, who had stayed far enough away to keep Arthur from panicking. Arthur handed him the smaller bundle of money. "How long you been sneakin' your money in with mine?"

Dutch just stared at the cash, a knot lodging in his throat. Arthur had been giving Eliza every cent of his for years. Dutch only thought it fair to take some of Arthur's and replace it with his own, sticking the leftover money in a lockbox for Arthur to have once Dutch figured out how to explain what he'd been doing. It seemed an insult the more Dutch thought about it--giving to another man's family. But Arthur just hugged him.

It was rough and abrupt, knocking an undignified yelp from Dutch as Arthur's body crashed against his. Arthur was freezing, the wind having been battering him for God knew how many miles.

"I meant to make it back by dinner." Arthur's voice cracked. "But I just...I--"

Dutch hugged him back, missing the days when Arthur wasn't quite so tall and broad, when Dutch could throw him over his shoulder anytime he started to act up or do something borderline crazy. "You don't have to explain anything to me, son."

"I...loved them."

"I know you did."

It was so reminiscent of the conversation Hosea had with John that Dutch was already dreading when John grew to be Arthur's age, no longer worried if Hosea loved him, but worried if he could go one when the people that loved him died.

Arthur was crying again, a soft sniffling sound that occasionally turned to a whimper. Arthur had not cried like that even when he was much younger and mourning his mother. But this was fresh. Like a burn. It ached worse and worse, the skin cooking even after leaving the heat source, everything you touched sending you into fresh waves of pain until it slowly scarred over. And even then, the nerves would always be damaged. All it took was a little friction to remember the agonizing pain you were once in.

Arthur's knees buckled and Dutch dragged him over to the table, easing him into a chair and scooting up another so Dutch could still hold onto him. Arthur pressed his forehead to the table, gasping, tears staining the wood. Dutch just kept his arm tight around him, head on his shoulder, whispering the lies that everything would be okay.

*

Twenty minutes had gone by and Arthur's whimpers were turning to sobs that left him breathless and gulping. Hosea was sliding into a chair beside Arthur before Dutch heard him, arm overlapping Dutch's to squeeze at the tensed muscles between Arthur's neck and shoulder.

"Arthur?" 

John's wary voice made Dutch's eyes leave Hosea's, finding the boy creeping toward the table. Dutch waved him closer but put a finger to his own lips. John nodded and came around, wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist as if riding a horse behind him and rested his head on Dutch and Hosea's arms.

"I should have been there," Arthur said eventually, voice hoarse and broken with sobs that rattled the four of them at once.

"Blaming yourself does no good, Arthur," Hosea said.

"But it's my fault. It is. I...I helped make that boy. And then I just abandoned him. I'm no better than--"

Dutch stopped him before Arthur could compare himself to his abusive, drunkard father. "You loved him. You provided for him. You taught him his first word, for chrissakes. Don't you tell me that you had a hand in anything but the goodness that boy felt."

"I'm afraid," Arthur said, startling Dutch and Hosea both. "I'm afraid of these-these thoughts...these ideas that without them I'm better off..."

Please don't say it, Dutch thought.

But he did.

"Dead."

"You know that's not true," Hosea said. "Those thoughts are just grief talkin'. You're not better off dead, Arthur, much as you may think it."

"I just...feel...empty."

Dutch was cracking, the floodgates of his own tears creaking open. He dug his fingers into Arthur's shirt as if afraid he'd lose him right then and there. A dark thought crossed his mind: maybe Dutch had already lost him. But he eased that fear, hoping that as long as Arthur was willing to talk, they could talk him out of taking his life.

*

Dutch could instill a great sense of power and wistfulness into anyone willing to hear his grandiose speeches, but it was Hosea's gentle coaxing that got Arthur into his cot. Dutch has to physically restrain himself from tucking the blankets tight around Arthur as Hosea had done for John, grabbing the pole keeping his own tent standing so he wouldn't stray toward Arthur's. 

"You really should let me clean those cuts now," Hosea said, low enough to keep Arthur from hearing. 

Dutch ran a hand down his own face, receiving sharp, burning pains where Arthur's knuckles had flayed skin and deep, dull pangs where the blood had been pooling inside. He thought he deserved it - the pain. The punishment. But he couldn't explain to Hosea why as long as he was unsure himself. He suspected it had something to do with the look John had given him when Mrs. Blevins pointed out the cruelness of thieves, and therefore of Dutch. The people he had killed...there had been people like Arthur mourning them. How many extra lives had he taken by shooting one bullet?

Hosea continued when Dutch refused to agree. "Seeing them is just going to make Arthur feel worse. They'll heal faster if we clean them."

"You just want to test one of your weird herbs on me." The needling joke fell flat in his own ears. He sighed and followed Hosea to the fire. 

John already had drool coursing down his chin. His brother was home. Things were normal. He could sleep with the ease of an indoor pet. It lifted some of the heaviness off Dutch's chest, imagining that it could be that simple, that maybe Arthur's admissions were just the wild mutterings of the mentally exhausted. But then, as he began boiling water for Dutch's wounds, Hosea whispered, "Should we take his guns?"

Dutch sighed again. "Not yet."

Hosea just nodded. Sometimes Dutch thought Hosea trusted his judgment too much. He didn't know the right answer, but he could only assume that taking Arthur's guns would disrupt the normalcy he needed to feel again in order to heal.

No one thought about his knife.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please know that your feelings are justified, but suicide is never the answer. You deserve better.
> 
> National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:  
> 1-800-273-8255

Nearly two weeks had passed, and while Arthur was more withdrawn, he wasn't gone all together. He still showed up for dinner, still planned heists with Dutch and Hosea, still sat at the edge of the creek to draw. Dutch found himself relaxing at night, sleeping like the dead when all his family was safe in camp, as it was the night a cold hand squeezed his bicep. 

Dutch jerked awake, bleary eyes trying to focus on the shadowed figure by his bed.

"I changed my mind," was all Arthur said. 

"W-what?" Dutch stuttered, voice thick with sleep.

"I think it's too late, but I changed my mind. I love you, Dutch. M'sorry."

"What?" Dutch said, sharper, sitting up and fumbling for his lantern. He couldn't get a match lit while Arthur was clinging to him, oddly warm and oddly wet. "Hosea!"

Arthur dropped to his knees, resting his head on the cot and running his hands down to Dutch's. "Please forgive me."

Light flared into the tent, Hosea stopping at the mouth of it, eyes wide and focused on Arthur. The first thing Dutch really noticed was the smears of blood Arthur's hands had left down his forearms. Arthur's face was sheet-white and his eyes glossed. Hosea was scrambling to his side while Dutch remained on his cot, still and stiff and squeezing Arthur's hands so tight that Hosea couldn't pry them apart.

"Let go of 'em, Dutch! He's hurt!" Hosea was screaming, and that slapped Dutch out of his shock. 

He yanked his hands from Arthur's, eyeing the path of bright red from Arthur's tent to his own, waving John back when he tried to rush inside, and then, finally, looking down at his son's wrists and the red gashes that carved them. Arthur was crying tears; his wounds were crying blood, bathing him and his clothes and the dirt floor in enough blood leave Arthur hollow.

"Above your head," Dutch snapped, dropping beside Arthur and tapping his elbows until Arthur lifted them above his heart.

"Bandages!" Hosea shouted to no one, hoping that someone would listen, but Dutch couldn't move and John was still frozen at the entrance.

"John," Dutch snapped. "Bandages. Now."

Hosea was ripping up one of Dutch's shirts. Dutch drew his knife and began slicing through another. 

"You...you two...saved my life...and this...this is...what I did."

"Hush, Arthur," Hosea said, tightening a strip of cloth just below Arthur's shoulder, the fabric whining and popping at the force. Dutch's hands were shaking too hard to tighten his strip on the opposite shoulder, and Hosea shoved him back. "For God's sake, Dutch, do it right or move"

"Here," John said, dropping their bag of medical supplies in Dutch's lap and scurrying back from the scene. He kept a hand over his mouth and nose, the metallic scent nearly suffocating.

Dutch wiped down Arthur's wrists, finding cuts reaching all the way to his inner elbow and began wrapping gauze around his palm. Hosea grabbed another role and started up the other arm, cursing in ways he'd refrained from since young boys joined their family.

"I-I felt nothing," Arthur croaked, sounding young all over again.

"Save your breath, son," Hosea interrupted.

"But then...this...made me feel...everything."

Don't pass out, don't pass out, don't pass out. That was all Dutch was thinking, biting his tongue to keep from shouting it. Dutch would rather him keep blabbering on, because if he stopped talking, if those watery eyes shut, then Arthur was as good as dead and anything they did would be a waste of bandages. He wouldn't let himself think for even a second that it was already too late, no matter how much Hosea's rolling slowed, or how his hands trembled, or how silent tears streaked his cheeks.

His son could not die because then he would die.

"Keep going, Hosea," Dutch barked.

"Dutch--"

"Do it!" 

"Dutch he needs stitches. We ain't gonna stop this. Slow it down, maybe, but--"

Arthur's head lolled and Dutch patted his cheek until his eyes snapped open. "Don't you do this to me, son."

"But we ain't got the supplies needed for this kind of thing. And I don't think he can get on a horse."

"He can, can't you, Arthur?" Dutch said, finishing one layer of bandages and starting another as the blood kept seeping through. "Finish up and I'll carry him to the horses."

"He's going to..." Hosea hesitated, but to Dutch's relief he was back to wrapping Arthur's arm. "He might bleed out before we get to town, especially if he's under stress."

"Then use all we've got. We can use every thread of every shirt I own, but come Hell or high water, I'm getting this boy to the doctor, and if he don't wanna make a late night call you better believe I'll kick in his door and hold a gun to his head until he starts fixin' this!"

Hosea, either by Dutch's words or by what the older man saw in Dutch's face, shut up and finished wrapping. They pulled Arthur to his feet, his muscles weak and his steps slow, getting him on Dutch's steed and leaning into Dutch's back. 

"Hold tight, Arthur, you hear me?" Hosea said, mounting up with John slipping into the saddle behind him. 

Dutch spurred his horse, silently promising the old boy could take it easy for the rest of time so long as he did everything in his power to win this final race.


	4. Chapter 4

Not even halfway there, Arthur's grip began to slip. Dutch took a hand off the reins to clasp Arthur's hands tighter at his waist, knowing it wouldn't be enough to hold him there once his body started tipping. But he couldn't slow down. Even when Hosea's horse became a black dot on the dark horizon, Dutch didn't dare wait for him to catch up. 

"Talk to me, son." Arthur didn't respond until Dutch began rubbing frantic circles against the back of his hand. "Arthur?"

"I...I didn't think it through. What it would do to you. Hosea. John."

"Admittedly, son, I'd throttle you right now if you were in a proper state for it. But I'm more upset that you'd do this to yourself, no matter what we would feel. You know we love you, but... but you have to love yourself at least a little to keep sane in this world. To survive it. We can't do that for you."

"I...don't even...like myself. Don't know if I ever have."

Dutch spurred his steed again, even knowing it couldn't possible move faster. What remained of his dinner curdled in his stomach, rushed up his throat. He held it at bay, only because throwing up would slow them down.

"Why, Arthur?" Dutch croaked.

"I dunno."

Dutch heard everything he refused to say, and couldn't help but feel it had been his doing. He and Hosea saved Arthur yes, but they also made him steal and kill, made him forgo any other family in favor of his family of outlaws. Letting Arthur leave for a month the past couple years had been a compromise Dutch had almost refused.

"There must be something about me good enough to hate," Arthur whispered. "God obviously found reason."

"Well you and him are the only ones," Dutch snapped, sharper than he'd intended, blood pressure spiking and heartbeat hammering in his ears. "Men aren't meant to be angels. A just god wouldn't punish those who weren't. A just god wouldn't make you the way you are just to make you suffer for it, here or in whatever hell people preach about these days."

Arthur's grip went even more slack, weight shifting back far enough to unease the horse. Dutch yanked the reins, pulling them back on the road while fumbling for a better hold on Arthur. 

"Son, you are going to make it through this. You're going to live a long, beautiful life. Not because it's something to earn but because it's something you're entitled to. This country is going to shit. I hate it - what it's become. But I endure it because there is so much damn joy to be felt. Like loving you. You make up for every law meant to enslave us, for every rich fool monopolizing off the poor, for every O'driscoll I'll ever meet, and for all the loss it took to get us here. If you die, part of me will go with you, but I'll still fight to survive because that's all we can do. Understand me, Arthur? That's really the only control we got: choosing to live when there seems little use for it."

But Arthur was gone, limp against Dutch's back, only the shallow, intermittent puffs of breath proving that he was still fighting. 

*

The sun had began its ascent over the town, and Dutch began screaming for help as soon as he could see the clinic on the horizon. He couldn't get off his horse, not while he was the only thing keeping Arthur's slack body from hitting the ground. So he shouted for help until his throat ached, until his calls drew onlookers, until strange hands were prying Arthur away from Dutch and the town doctor scurried from his apartment to the front of his shop.

The doctor was unlocking his office door, throwing questions at Dutch while directing the men who carried Arthur inside. Dutch didn't hear him, focused instead on the gray color of Arthur's skin and the damp imprints of cooling blood Arthur's arms had left around his waist. He more fell off his horse than jumped off. Someone steadied him. Someone else offered him a drink. The doctor rushed inside after Arthur. Dutch freed himself from the strangers and followed, the walls of the office swallowing him, spinning around him, changing colors with the dots swarming his vision. He filed into the room where Arthur was being laid out on an examination table that looked more suited for a mortician's office, all metal and sharp, flat lines. 

Dutch slammed into a madicine cabinet, gasping in a breath as the doctor cut away Arthur's bandages. Furious red lines. Skin coated in old and new blood. Too much color on his arms and too little in his face. 

The doctor said nothing, but Dutch saw the moment of utter stillness that overtook him. He looked at Dutch, then at one of the strangers that was sporting Arthur's blood. "Get my assistant. She lives upstairs. Hurry."

The man spun on his heels and fled the room. 

Dutch collapsed. 

He was blinking up at the ceiling in the next instant, ears ringing, body too heavy to move, but somehow he was back in the hallway, a cold cloth on his forehead that was dripping water into his hair. As soon as he could move he was moving to stand, the ground farther than he had anticipated. He dropped from an exam table and his knees crashed against the tile floor, tongue too dry and swollen to spit the curse he'd intended. 

"Arthur?" His shout was just a low murmur in his ears. He grabbed the exam table's edge, the whole thing shifting on its four wheels, the whole world spinning when the table stopped with a hard thump against the wall. 

"Dutch!"

Dutch turned his head toward the voice in time to see John running down the hall before crashing into him. Hosea was just now coming in the door, expression hardening at Dutch's.

"Is he okay? Where is he? Where's Arthur, Dutch?"

Dutch had managed to keep them both standing, but his mind was lagging behind his reflexes, John's questions just a string of nonsense. Hosea clasped John's shoulder, easing him away from Dutch while glancing between the wet rag on the floor and the exam table. 

"You..." Hosea began, having to clear his throat. When he spoke again, it was with a layer of faux steel in his voice, and he still couldn't finish what he started. "Is Arthur...?" 

Dutch didn't know. He didn't know how long he'd been out or who had moved him or even what room Arthur had been in. All the things he couldn't speak, Hosea must have saw. 

"Lay down, Dutch. John, watch him." He started farther down the hall, peering into the frosted-glass windows on each door. 

John opened his mouth to argue but shut it as Dutch sat with an unbridled tremble in his legs. John climbed up beside him, seemed to want to speak again but ended up only resting his head against Dutch's arm. He was learning that sometimes the best thing to say was nothing at all, and Dutch loved him more for it, for being so young and so wise while Dutch felt like he was doing nothing except making a constant slew of mistakes left and right and left again. He'd passed out when Arthur needed him the most. What if that had been his last chance to see him? What if he had opened his eyes one last time only to wonder where Dutch had gone? He might have died with only strangers at his side, which meant he'd died alone.

"I can get the blanket from your saddlebag," John whispered.

"I'm okay."

"You're shivering."

Dutch lifted his arm, wrapping it around John and pulling him closer. John hugged him like he'd been the one dying. Dutch wanted to tell him it was going to be okay, but he couldn't get the words out. Trying only sharpened the ache in his chest. 

He heard the pop of a door leaving a tight frame and watched Hosea disappear into a room. Distantly, he recognized the voice of the doctor. Dutch shifted to stand but hesitated, waiting for...he wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Hosea to scream. To cheer. To laugh or cry. But all he did was return to the hall long enough to wave Dutch forward and disappeared again.

John squirmed away and sprinted toward the room, Dutch too breathless to tell him to slow it down. His boots left a trail of dry mud. Dutch followed it, feeling his heart beat faster with each step, feeling his throat cinch shut as he stepped over the threshold and into the room, feeling all his muscles clench as he looked up.

Feeling his heart thrum with relief and joy and - for once in his life - peace. Arthur's eyes were open. His hand was in Hosea's. John was fighting to get between the two of them. The doctor was wrapping one of Arthur's arms. The other was already bandaged, hiding what Dutch knew would be a forest of stitches. He hadn't believed in miracles, but this...

The doctor finished up, stepped back to give John room to take Arthur's other hand. As soon as he began to turn Dutch stumbled into the hall, leaning against the wall and burying his face in his hand. It felt like all the emotions he could possibly feel were surging out at once. A relieved laugh broke into a sob. He stifled it by biting his knuckle hard enough to draw blood. But the tears he couldn't stop. Not once they started. 

The hand on his shoulder startled him. It was the doctor, face contorting into thinly-veiled look of pity. It made Dutch cry harder. 

"He owes you his life, so don't look so guilty."

Dutch nodded, trying to gather and hold to what dignity he had left. "And I'm sure I owe you a fortune. I promise I'm good for it."

"In due time. Dutch, right? The boy was asking for you. I'm sure he'd like to see you." The doctor glanced at Dutch's gun. "Excuse me if I'm overstepping, but I can assure you that no one feels more vulnerable than him. Perhaps he needs to see you like this. So he knows he's not alone."

The doctor left him before he could reply. Not that Dutch knew what to say except that he wholeheartedly thought that was the stupidest idea he'd ever heard. The only thing his tears would bring would be guilt, which Arthur had already had his fill of. So Dutch took a breath and dried his face before finally returning to the room.

John was sitting on the foot of the exam table. Hosea still had Arthur's hand. Whatever the conversation had been stopped as soon as Arthur's eyes met Dutch's. The air left Dutch's lungs. Arthur had actually flinched. Old tears dotted his bottom lashes and lines cut deep between his brows. He looked like he had all those years ago when he’d borrowed Dutch’s horse only to end up getting it shot. He had walked all the way back to camp, his own belt in his hands before trying to pass it to Dutch. Dutch had been more concerned by the tears streaking Arthur’s face than by the obvious vacancy of their hitching post. Dutch had never asked about Arthur’s father, but used to, when he moved too suddenly, Arthur would flinch. Used to, when Dutch drank, Arthur would vanish until day. It was as if at any second Dutch might snap. Hit him and kick him and belt him until he saw Death. 

Lying on the exam table, squeezing Hosea’s hand, Arthur once again looked like he expected Dutch to beat him.

Dutch surged forward, rushing to wrap his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and hide his face in Arthur’s hair. The hold on his own tears broke. Arthur relaxed. 

“Aw, Dutch, you’re gonna get me goin’,” Arthur croaked. 

“I’m just...so glad you’re okay.” Dutch held an arm out behind him, feeling John sink into it. He held his boys tight, relieved he could still do it, sickened that Arthur couldn’t. He wept into Arthur’s hair until he was cried out, until John had curled up beside Arthur, until Hosea squeezed his shoulder and Dutch pulled back to find both their boys fast asleep.

Hosea shot Dutch a warm, knowing smile. “I’ll ride back to camp,” he whispered. “Get money for the bill. I think it’s best to let them sleep, so long as the doc will let them stay here. You should stay with them.”

Dutch gently dried Arthur’s cheeks. “Thank you, Hosea.”

“And Colm claims you don’t have a heart.”

“For you and our boys I do.”

“And always will, I suspect.”


	5. Chapter 5

It was more of a curse than anything, seeing Arthur torn to shreds, but there was also something cathartic about it. Arthur was safe. John was safe. And there they lay, within Dutch’s reach and sleeping like babies. Nothing could hurt them, Dutch felt, so long as they stayed in sight.

But soon even John would be leaving camp on his own, finding jobs and forming relationships. And perhaps he would be nothing like Arthur; perhaps he would leave without word and return weeks later or never at all, leaving Dutch to chew his nails to the quicks. By then, Arthur would have met someone new. He would want to go off like that lovesick fool Hosea had, and maybe Hosea would find his way back to Bessie after all. 

A cold, deep part of him bubbled up, burning through his heart like ice on bare skin. He did not want to be alone. It would be the death of him.

The doctor returned with a pillow, and Dutch sat up straighter, watching as the man managed to slide it under Arthur’s head without waking him. When Dutch leaned closer, checking Arthur’s breathing, the doctor took a moment to assure him that he was still just sleeping.

Dutch narrowed his eyes. “If hospitably costs any extra, I’m afraid I already sent my associate for the amount we agreed to.”

“It’s nothing like that, sir, I assure you.” He glanced down at John. “It’s quite nice, really. That you care.”

Dutch stiffened. He had expected something sinister, be it from habit or lack of faith in humanity, he wasn’t sure, but the doctor had a smile in his eyes when they met Dutch’s.

“You don’t know how many parents drag their half-dead kids through my door, claiming it a riding accident even while sporting bloody knuckles. Sometimes the kids' heads are too scrambled to wake up, and sometimes the parents don’t care. When they do, it’s only because they lost an extra pair of hands on their farms.”

Dutch let his eyes cling to Arthur like he used to do when Arthur was younger and Dutch feared the boy he had come to love would simply vanish if he wasn’t paying attention. Arthur had fought with nightmares for years, and Dutch would often hear him begging his phantom father to stop. Back then all it took was a squeeze on the shoulder and some hot soup to calm Arthur down. Back then it had been so easy. 

“I’ve met the type,” Dutch said.

“I care about people, I do,” the doctor continued. “That’s why I am what I am. But seeing how much you love them makes me care more. Makes all my efforts and losses worthwhile, knowing that someone I saved has a good life to get back to, when so many I save don’t. They come back here often times. Die. There is only so much the human body can take when the mind is unwilling to continue. But this boy, he fought. He knew he had love to fall back on.”

Dutch blinked something back, something that he refused to acknowledge as tears. He had exposed too much of himself already, was raw from it.

“I don’t want your money.”

Dutch’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve paid me enough.”

“I can’t possibly—”

“You reignited a fire under me. I hadn’t realized how cold I’d gotten. How close I was to quitting.”

Dutch only thought about it for a moment, how poor they really were, how since John came along the extra mouth to feed and body to dress sometimes felt like a black hole meant only to swallow their savings. “I have to insist,” Dutch said. “You saved my son’s life. I owe you more than I could ever afford, but you have to at least take what you’ve asked for.”

“I’d rather know it was spent on these boys than on me. Like I said, I don’t have any shortage of business here. These people here are poor, but they’re plentiful. You aren’t getting the blood out of yours and his clothes. And this young one here looks like he could use some meat on his bones. I know you’ve taken care of them, I just want to make sure you have the means to do it.”

*

Hosea returned, having changed from his bloody shirt and carrying a clean one for Dutch. Dutch refused it, told him to hide it back in his saddlebag along with the clean one meant for Arthur. 

“We won’t need the money either.”

Hosea frowned. “How much cocaine gum you been chewin’?”

“Not enough. But I’m serious." Dutch rubbed his tired eyes, wondering if he could stay awake long enough to get home. "We got lucky today.”

Hosea squeezed Dutch's shoulder, eyes cast over their boys. "No doubt."

*

Arthur stirred when Dutch nudged him, expression flashing from confusion to cold realization. Whatever he had been dreaming must have promised a better outcome than the waking world did. John slid off the bed. Dutch helped Arthur sit up.

"Let's get you boys back to camp. Can you ride, Arthur?"

Arthur nodded, letting Dutch lift him to his feet by his armpits. Arthur stumbled, murmured something about being dizzy. His face was pale and slicked with sweat. 

They should wait. Give him more time. But there was something about being in the same town as Arthur's dead family that made Dutch think it too risky. They could get a hotel room, but Dutch was on the brink of collapse. If he let sleep take him under, Arthur might sneak out to the graves, might cut through his stitches and bleed where his boy was rotting. 

"Take your time, son," Hosea said, coming to Arthur's other side and helping Dutch walk him into the hallway, John on their heels. If Dutch could ignore the bandages, it felt like just another evening where Arthur had drank enough to warrant an escort home. 

Hosea helped Dutch get Arthur on his horse. Arthur had almost grown too large to share a saddle, would in another couple years, Dutch imagined, but for now, knowing that Arthur could slot in behind him as he'd done when they first found him, Dutch felt something close to peace of mind. Arthur was still filling out. Still young. Safe until another woman pulled him from Dutch's grip. 

"Dutch, stop," Arthur said.

Dutch tugged the reins without thinking, Hosea slowing his own horse behind them.

"The hell you doin', Dutch?" Hosea snapped, and Dutch craned his neck to see Arthur's eyes cast toward a boarded up house and its two graves. He inwardly cursed himself. He had taken the fastest road home, but it was now the most haunted.

"I wanna..." Arthur swallowed. "I wanna see them."

Dutch thought of that invisible grip he had on his sons, felt it slipping. He had felt that too much already. "I don't know, son."

But Arthur was already slipping from the saddle, striking the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. Dutch cursed aloud this time, jumping down and getting to Arthur's side the same time Hosea and John did, Hosea reaching up to smack Dutch across the head.

"Arthur, my boy, you need rest," Hosea was saying, the tenderness in his voice gone from his eyes as they focused on Dutch.

"I need to see them." Arthur croaked, working to get his legs under him. "Have to tell them..."

"I'm sure they know," Dutch said, wrapping an arm around Arthur's back and hoisting him to standing. He turned him back toward the horse, but Arthur fought against them.

"Have to tell them..." Arthur began again, never finishing. 

Hosea sighed. Shook his head. But relented. "All right, son. Of course. I understand. Let me help you over, okay?"

Arthur was moving before Hosea had finished, Dutch trying to hold him still, but another glance from Hosea forced Dutch to let go. It terrified him, seeing Arthur walk away. Seeing him surrounded by the place that would fill his nightmares. Seeing him be the man Dutch didn't want him to be quite yet. Dutch had to turn away, laying a steadying hand on his horse. 

There was a nudge at his side, John's shoulder pushing into his ribcage. "You okay, Dutch?"

Dutch opened his eyes, looked down at John's. There was a seriousness in them that seemed too old for his face. It made the weight on Dutch's heart heavier.

"It's hard, is all, John."

John nodded, though Dutch suspected he wasn't making much sense. 

"Is Arthur gonna be okay?"

Dutch glanced toward the graves, toward Arthur kneeled in the dirt in front of them as Hosea stepped back to give him privacy. Dutch watched him, saying nothing until Arthur stood on his own and turned back toward the horses. He was still shaky. Still red-eyed. But he met Dutch's eyes and nodded his thanks for stopping. For letting Arthur go to the graves, as Dutch would have to inevitably let him go back into the cruel world and only hope that he had taught Arthur all he needed to know to get back alive.

Most importantly, Dutch had taught him that he always had a home to come back to and people to love him, no matter what choices he made. That was the promise that came with children, Dutch was learning; you had to love them and let them go.

Dutch nodded to John. "He'll be just fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's pretend the canon ending of the game never happened so this isn't as depressing :p


End file.
